Onirem2000
03-08-2009, 06:23 AM
Blind Chief
One step. Two steps. We grow strong and prosper; we fall back on ourselves. Turning back is how the way moves. Goddamn rich capitalists with fat pockets, where is my money. Where are all the gifts I wish I could present to my girlfriend. INNOVATION IS PROGRESS. THROUGHOUT HUMAN HISTORY WE’VE HAD CAPITAL. THE BANKS OF ROME FELL, THE SENATE STOOPS INTO TUMULT. THE REPUBLIC MUST BE UPHELD. CAESAR RODE TO THE TEMPLE OFFERING BAGS OF GOLD. GIVE RISE TO THE DARK AGES. 1929/ 2009: CONSUMER’S LENDING DEBTS OVER 100% OF THE NATION’S GROSS DOMESTIC PRODUCT. OBAMA TO THE BANK: LEND MORE TO THE GREEDY BASTARDS-- THOUSANDS OF JOBS ARE BEING LOST EVERYDAY! MISERS, FOOLS, THE SAGES WHO BROUGHT HELL UPON THE EARTH HAVE A PLAN TO SAVE THE ECONOMY.
Rolling on a hunk of steel moving flowers for dead people. Don’t crash the van again, or else you’ll have no job. No cigarettes, no rock star. Not even the twenty dollars every other week to take love out for dinner. Don’t be late to work or Maria born in California will scold you with spanglish, saying, ‘you know what, Nick you really to grow up, like you know this is getting ridiculous. Like I don’t need to babysit. Keeps happening and I don’t have a choice to let you go.’ Two dollars in my wallet. No money for cigarettes and the law calling. ‘I know, it won’t happen again.’ You said that last time: ‘I know.’
I’m plagued by Catholics for nine dollars an hour with their damned stares and their prim faces. Is it my shabby suit? The holes in my ears? Is it because I’m tense and nervous? No, the Nun knows why! It’s because I’m on something; I’ve been continuously wiping my nose. I’ve been snorting lines in the bathroom. Or maybe I’ve been crawling around a van stacked to the ceiling with dead flowers. The scourge of their pollen, making my nose burn, my eyes itchy red and dry, making my head feel like I‘m thirty feet underwater. To hell with the drones, not a penny of sympathy will come from me, with your brochures and newspapers of how to vote; how to shun homosexuals; how to have frivolous conversations with peoples of other religions; the saints would have been great without you. Saints who experienced the unnamable upon mountaintops while you were running in circles, playing war. And I still stand for you. The lead donkey forgets his bookmark to the rites of Christian funerals, so we wait while he calmly skims his book. Five minutes gone. God thinks you’re a fool, you cocky bastard. Read the good word, then preach. An old schoolboy who never memorized his poems returns with his lines. Saul was right. And Saul will Fight! If only he died a horrible heathen!'
‘It just seems like the guys I see in jails with tattoos trying to be against the establishment,’ papa says. You like them with holes and your ears. Jealous souls, gowned in flesh from below, weathered the globe round in circles since time immemorial. A ubiquitous migration of myriad gaggles: wild fowl ravenous with hunger: father onto father, quacking, ‘if you have ears let hear.’
Papa and I hum at times: ‘When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child; but when I became I a man, I put away all childish things.’ Goodbye naivety. Mother and father want me to be high and mighty like a lawyer, maybe a police officer with bursts of latent anger, maybe an assistant meant to be a doctor to help the old like mother, but no in vain I only want to be the world’s greatest writer… My mother and her jeering smile and her revealing eyes. Father doesn’t pay attention unless the law is calling, but he might have made a craft of it. Who knows he could never sit still to get an education. Maybe I’ll have to wander upon a basement, entrenched by squalor. He did his time when he was young with humble eyes and dedication. He was a willing servant of the law; the gracious server of servants awaiting their milk, bread, and honey three times a day.
Pseudo humility where are you? I’ve been looking for you, you enigma of fools, you keep me on the ground scurrying to and fro. Until I die, I’ll keep my mouth closed. They all find you without looking. Arrogant bastard! Keep your mouth closed. Say please and thank you. Leave your tangents to yourself. Feign humility before you have a bout of mania. Show restraint. Be brief. Don‘t stutter and forget the words of the drivel you wish was a masterpiece. Forget about humility. It’s beyond the window.
An eagle ascending into the muses beyond temporal visions. The three springs. Arrogance, pride, and sorrow will await us tomorrow, and we’ll mingle until we close our eyes, awaiting our yellow lives down in blue abysmal skies. Awaiting our days of respect and reverence when the shadow of the valley shines upon our backs. We’ll see the immanence of truth in their fearful faces. He fluttered, but I’ll flutter Higher. Someday I’ll be up high, up high, beyond the sleaziness of life.
Overarching the heavens resides the magic of a secular education, expanding the horizons of speculative ignorance. No in the trees. No in the Savior. ‘No really where is it,’ says the student to the Guru. ‘It’s beyond the window.’ No you jejune heathens, God is a lover of righteousness and piety, bow your heads, make your prayers, so before you die you can cry out in pride upon your kneeling son: ‘Oh Death, Where is thy Sting; Oh Hades, Where is Thy Goddamned Victory!’
The divine purges the righteous of imperfections. But even so, says the professor, sagacious and a walking encyclopedia, ‘in the mind of God the Eternal, dualisms are trivial games. Everything is of God.’ Hell-bound Hiroshima; ashes Auschwitz; babies and children who needs them! Nietzsche the babbling buffoon. See its been centuries and you were wrong: God is alive and well! No, no, you must be thinking of a personal god. On the throne in heaven whose spirit flails about in the smoke of lanterns?
Heads bobbing, eyes dazzling, silence falls from the air of the classroom. Ramakrishna said but before you get to the intersection’s crossing upon the mountain’s apex, ladies and gentlemen, please remember to walk through the metal detector because we haven’t got hospitals up there and God doesn’t care too much about armies of ants making warfare. Much too much thought to such nonsense. But wait professor, sorry to bother you but I have another question, ‘what would, say, ascetic cannibals be considered as?’ God you jackass. But remember, when the priest makes you nervous, don’t worry because he doesn’t know **** either. Sit still in your pew, quit fidgeting, look straight ahead to the altar!
And in my head I can be the merriest heretic. For I’m well nourished: blasphemy my bread and blood transfigured into the spirit of Truth. The Glorious Spirit transforms our souls, cleansing us from the dirt projecting from the earth. And, in the end, we awaken in the kingdom where we and our fathers and mothers rejoice with all the Angels of off white, sounding the trumpets and swinging open the gates for a good Christian brethren, forgetting all the filth the world reared and brought upon heaven. Amen.
The crazy eye of Yahweh: haughty, jealous, and blind. Blind to the infinite light of idealism. Blind to the world of becoming in the transcendent like that of the kingdom of being in the present: blind to the fertile soil of the earth. Closed eyes to the kingdom beyond expectation, the kingdom of the 9 to 5. Have some spirit.
Forget about modernism. I’ll write tender snooty prose, singing, today will be my silly parade where man’s feigned masquerades banter and flutter away, scurrying to and fro round the steps until I’m heading east south north and west. I’ll make my way thinking myself the voice of reason, remembering, though, that I and the others are all blathering voices: historical manifestations with their time and place.
May the spirit of truth from my father upon father light my path upon fertile soil, for the shadow of death will be made an illusion; and thy rod and thy staff will be my illumination; good and evil, halting, awaiting judgment. And upon the apex of the mountain, the path is forgotten but the experience of life eternal.
One step. Two steps. We grow strong and prosper; we fall back on ourselves. Turning back is how the way moves. Goddamn rich capitalists with fat pockets, where is my money. Where are all the gifts I wish I could present to my girlfriend. INNOVATION IS PROGRESS. THROUGHOUT HUMAN HISTORY WE’VE HAD CAPITAL. THE BANKS OF ROME FELL, THE SENATE STOOPS INTO TUMULT. THE REPUBLIC MUST BE UPHELD. CAESAR RODE TO THE TEMPLE OFFERING BAGS OF GOLD. GIVE RISE TO THE DARK AGES. 1929/ 2009: CONSUMER’S LENDING DEBTS OVER 100% OF THE NATION’S GROSS DOMESTIC PRODUCT. OBAMA TO THE BANK: LEND MORE TO THE GREEDY BASTARDS-- THOUSANDS OF JOBS ARE BEING LOST EVERYDAY! MISERS, FOOLS, THE SAGES WHO BROUGHT HELL UPON THE EARTH HAVE A PLAN TO SAVE THE ECONOMY.
Rolling on a hunk of steel moving flowers for dead people. Don’t crash the van again, or else you’ll have no job. No cigarettes, no rock star. Not even the twenty dollars every other week to take love out for dinner. Don’t be late to work or Maria born in California will scold you with spanglish, saying, ‘you know what, Nick you really to grow up, like you know this is getting ridiculous. Like I don’t need to babysit. Keeps happening and I don’t have a choice to let you go.’ Two dollars in my wallet. No money for cigarettes and the law calling. ‘I know, it won’t happen again.’ You said that last time: ‘I know.’
I’m plagued by Catholics for nine dollars an hour with their damned stares and their prim faces. Is it my shabby suit? The holes in my ears? Is it because I’m tense and nervous? No, the Nun knows why! It’s because I’m on something; I’ve been continuously wiping my nose. I’ve been snorting lines in the bathroom. Or maybe I’ve been crawling around a van stacked to the ceiling with dead flowers. The scourge of their pollen, making my nose burn, my eyes itchy red and dry, making my head feel like I‘m thirty feet underwater. To hell with the drones, not a penny of sympathy will come from me, with your brochures and newspapers of how to vote; how to shun homosexuals; how to have frivolous conversations with peoples of other religions; the saints would have been great without you. Saints who experienced the unnamable upon mountaintops while you were running in circles, playing war. And I still stand for you. The lead donkey forgets his bookmark to the rites of Christian funerals, so we wait while he calmly skims his book. Five minutes gone. God thinks you’re a fool, you cocky bastard. Read the good word, then preach. An old schoolboy who never memorized his poems returns with his lines. Saul was right. And Saul will Fight! If only he died a horrible heathen!'
‘It just seems like the guys I see in jails with tattoos trying to be against the establishment,’ papa says. You like them with holes and your ears. Jealous souls, gowned in flesh from below, weathered the globe round in circles since time immemorial. A ubiquitous migration of myriad gaggles: wild fowl ravenous with hunger: father onto father, quacking, ‘if you have ears let hear.’
Papa and I hum at times: ‘When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child; but when I became I a man, I put away all childish things.’ Goodbye naivety. Mother and father want me to be high and mighty like a lawyer, maybe a police officer with bursts of latent anger, maybe an assistant meant to be a doctor to help the old like mother, but no in vain I only want to be the world’s greatest writer… My mother and her jeering smile and her revealing eyes. Father doesn’t pay attention unless the law is calling, but he might have made a craft of it. Who knows he could never sit still to get an education. Maybe I’ll have to wander upon a basement, entrenched by squalor. He did his time when he was young with humble eyes and dedication. He was a willing servant of the law; the gracious server of servants awaiting their milk, bread, and honey three times a day.
Pseudo humility where are you? I’ve been looking for you, you enigma of fools, you keep me on the ground scurrying to and fro. Until I die, I’ll keep my mouth closed. They all find you without looking. Arrogant bastard! Keep your mouth closed. Say please and thank you. Leave your tangents to yourself. Feign humility before you have a bout of mania. Show restraint. Be brief. Don‘t stutter and forget the words of the drivel you wish was a masterpiece. Forget about humility. It’s beyond the window.
An eagle ascending into the muses beyond temporal visions. The three springs. Arrogance, pride, and sorrow will await us tomorrow, and we’ll mingle until we close our eyes, awaiting our yellow lives down in blue abysmal skies. Awaiting our days of respect and reverence when the shadow of the valley shines upon our backs. We’ll see the immanence of truth in their fearful faces. He fluttered, but I’ll flutter Higher. Someday I’ll be up high, up high, beyond the sleaziness of life.
Overarching the heavens resides the magic of a secular education, expanding the horizons of speculative ignorance. No in the trees. No in the Savior. ‘No really where is it,’ says the student to the Guru. ‘It’s beyond the window.’ No you jejune heathens, God is a lover of righteousness and piety, bow your heads, make your prayers, so before you die you can cry out in pride upon your kneeling son: ‘Oh Death, Where is thy Sting; Oh Hades, Where is Thy Goddamned Victory!’
The divine purges the righteous of imperfections. But even so, says the professor, sagacious and a walking encyclopedia, ‘in the mind of God the Eternal, dualisms are trivial games. Everything is of God.’ Hell-bound Hiroshima; ashes Auschwitz; babies and children who needs them! Nietzsche the babbling buffoon. See its been centuries and you were wrong: God is alive and well! No, no, you must be thinking of a personal god. On the throne in heaven whose spirit flails about in the smoke of lanterns?
Heads bobbing, eyes dazzling, silence falls from the air of the classroom. Ramakrishna said but before you get to the intersection’s crossing upon the mountain’s apex, ladies and gentlemen, please remember to walk through the metal detector because we haven’t got hospitals up there and God doesn’t care too much about armies of ants making warfare. Much too much thought to such nonsense. But wait professor, sorry to bother you but I have another question, ‘what would, say, ascetic cannibals be considered as?’ God you jackass. But remember, when the priest makes you nervous, don’t worry because he doesn’t know **** either. Sit still in your pew, quit fidgeting, look straight ahead to the altar!
And in my head I can be the merriest heretic. For I’m well nourished: blasphemy my bread and blood transfigured into the spirit of Truth. The Glorious Spirit transforms our souls, cleansing us from the dirt projecting from the earth. And, in the end, we awaken in the kingdom where we and our fathers and mothers rejoice with all the Angels of off white, sounding the trumpets and swinging open the gates for a good Christian brethren, forgetting all the filth the world reared and brought upon heaven. Amen.
The crazy eye of Yahweh: haughty, jealous, and blind. Blind to the infinite light of idealism. Blind to the world of becoming in the transcendent like that of the kingdom of being in the present: blind to the fertile soil of the earth. Closed eyes to the kingdom beyond expectation, the kingdom of the 9 to 5. Have some spirit.
Forget about modernism. I’ll write tender snooty prose, singing, today will be my silly parade where man’s feigned masquerades banter and flutter away, scurrying to and fro round the steps until I’m heading east south north and west. I’ll make my way thinking myself the voice of reason, remembering, though, that I and the others are all blathering voices: historical manifestations with their time and place.
May the spirit of truth from my father upon father light my path upon fertile soil, for the shadow of death will be made an illusion; and thy rod and thy staff will be my illumination; good and evil, halting, awaiting judgment. And upon the apex of the mountain, the path is forgotten but the experience of life eternal.